


Camera Shy

by orphan_account



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Case Fic, One Shot, Red Pants
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-21
Updated: 2012-09-21
Packaged: 2017-11-14 17:56:49
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,782
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/517971
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/orphan_account
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>For the Red Pants competition happening over at tumblr.</p><p>  <i>Had he been a normal person, he would’ve thrown in the towel and called it quits soon after the Study in Pink. After all, you’d have to be suicidal to remain with a person that could get you killed in five different ways, daily.</i></p><p>  <i> Unfortunately, John Hamish Watson was not a normal person. Perhaps this was why he was currently in a photography studio in Camden, clad in only a pair of bright red pants, and with a camera being pointed at his crotch. </i></p>
            </blockquote>





	Camera Shy

There were several things John had learnt in his time with Sherlock.

 

1)    There were many inexplicable things in the universe. It was best not to question them, because sooner or later, Sherlock would explain everything in a long, waxing narrative —whether you really wanted to know or not.

2)    When Sherlock demanded something of you, it was best to comply because sooner or later, it would come back to bite you in the arse.

3)    Cameras were the enemy, because when you were the flatmate of a super famous net detective, then the paparazzi would take all sorts of candid shots of you. And once again, sooner or later, an unflattering photo of you eating a bacon sandwich would appear on the front page of The Sun. (‘Watson Chokes Down Meat’, really?)

 

Despite these wonderful life lessons, John still often found himself in rather uncomfortable situations. Had he been a normal person, he would’ve thrown in the towel and called it quits soon after the Study in Pink. After all, you’d have to be suicidal to remain with a person that could get you killed in five different ways, daily.

 

Unfortunately, John Hamish Watson was not a normal person. Perhaps this was why he was currently in a photography studio in Camden, clad in only a pair of bright red pants, and with a camera being pointed at his crotch.

 

This was so far out of his comfort zone, it was in the stratosphere.

 

“Remind me again why I’m doing this?” John asked through gritted teeth.

 

“No talking! The model must be still, like a statue!” screamed the skinny photographer dressed in all black. Click.

 

John sucked in a deep breath and glared at his friend. With his arms crossed, Sherlock stood to the side and made no effort to respond. His expression was neutral, and his eyes were glazed, as they generally were when he was deep in thought. Questioning Sherlock now would only be a waste of breath; there was no telling when he’d snap out of his daze. Hell, he’d be lucky if it was within the next two hours.

 

Forcing back a couple swears, John steeled himself and waited for the injustice to be over. He knew why he was doing this, despite his earlier question.

 

For the past two months, underwear models published in _Pants Fortnightly_ had been murdered in their own homes. There was a pattern, of course. The model was killed on the day the magazine was published and there were never any signs of physical struggle. The Yard were certain that they died alone. They were due for a fourth victim soon, and John prayed that he wouldn’t become another figure on a report sheet. That wasn’t to say that he didn’t trust Sherlock, but with the number of close calls they had... well, it was hardly unreasonable for him to be nervous.

 

He had questioned Sherlock about the whole acting as bait affair. When questioned as to why Sherlock couldn’t be the one parading about in these stupid looking pants, Sherlock answered, quite brusquely, that he wasn’t fat enough. Well. Not in so many words, but it was certainly hinted. The victims had been John’s age and stature; the murderer would have no interest in anyone as scrawny as he was.

 

The bullet wound through John’s left shoulder only added to the ‘rugged’ appeal, Sherlock added. John didn’t buy it, but reluctantly agreed all the same. If it meant that they could prevent another murder, then it was all for the greater good, right?

 

“No, no, no! You must be strong, like great oak! Lift your arms and show me power!”

 

Greater good, greater good, John reminded himself. Maybe when this whole case was over and the criminal was apprehended, he would be excused for throttling this photographer? Didn’t seem likely, but he could hope.

 

He felt like a right prat when he lifted his arms as instructed. From behind the photographer, he heard a few scattered giggles, from a few girls and a young man standing by the snack table. John felt his cheeks beginning to colour. God damn it, the things he did for Sherlock...

 

Though the pants were quite comfy, his mind supplied rather randomly.

 

When the photo shoot finally ended, John sat down on the pedestal with a grateful sigh. He had been awkwardly posing for hours and the process had been dragged out further by his inexperience. The process was embarrassing enough, but being asked to repeat poses because he messed up the first time was simply cruel. The photographer was out to get him, of this, he was sure.

 

Sherlock had played it off by explaining that John was a new model, so he was still a little skittish, and most of the crew and studio staff accepted the lie easily enough. Most didn’t seem to care. John was able to spot a few bitter interns cursing their poor luck, the poor sods wanted swimsuit and bikini models, not old army vets strutting around in bright red and white y-fronts.

 

Old. John winced at the thought. He didn’t like to think of himself as an OAP but he wasn’t exactly getting any younger. Any day now, he’d be complaining about his hip, just like Mrs. Hudson. Maybe he should invest in herbal soothers...

 

Wrapping the fluffy dressing gown tighter around himself, John was surprised to see a paper cup of coffee dangled in front of him. He followed the arm and to the face, smiling faintly when he saw Sherlock at the end.

 

“To what do I owe the pleasure?” He chuckled and took the offering, smiling after the first sip. No sugar this time, Sherlock did pay attention after all.

 

Sherlock’s gaze slid to the left, scanning the area for anyone who may have been listening. None, most were listening to personalised MP3 players or were too distracted to care. With a small shake of the head, as if to ward off arbitrary thought, he sat down beside John and said nothing.

 

John frowned, annoyed that he was once again, left out the loop. “Did you find out who it was?”

 

“John, I figured that out long ago,” Sherlock huffed and leaned back on his hands. “Today was just verification,” he told the ceiling.

 

John resisted the urge to crush the coffee cup in his hand. He did not need minor burns to top off an already bad day. “You mean I did this for nothing?”

 

Sherlock rolled his eyes. “Of course not,” he said. “I’d rather have bait I can keep track on than some random variable. You did not humiliate yourself for nothing.”

 

‘Humiliate.’ Now wasn’t that a wonderful word? John let out a quiet groan. “Oh God, I’m going to be in Pants Fortnightly,” he all but moaned. There was a low chuckle beside him. “Not funny.”

 

“No? I find it quite amusing,” Sherlock replied. “Come now, get dressed. We need to plan our next steps. The murderer will strike in four days.”

 

~*~

 

John wasn’t sure how, but somehow, Sherlock had managed to convince him to keep the underwear. Not only that, but he had managed to convince him to wear them around the flat.

 

Only the red pants. Nothing else.

 

The purpose was that, should the murderer break into their house, he or she would be so enraged at John’s appearance, they’d be more likely to make a mistake. John didn’t buy it, but questioning Sherlock was usually fatal.

 

While he was grateful that the flat was warm and away from public eye, he wasn’t all that comfortable with walking around in just his underwear, not when he knew Sherlock was lurking about. It was rather strange, when he thought about it. After all, he was a doctor and had been in the army, he was used to non-existent modesty; so didn’t make sense for him to be as unnerved as he was. Perhaps it was because he was wandering around in something that drew attention to his privates? He wasn’t too fond of people staring at his crotch unless consensual sex followed afterwards.

 

No, he thought with a shake of his head. That wasn’t important. What _was_ important was he was in the flat, in just his underwear and Sherlock was nowhere to be seen.

 

 _All the victims had been killed inside their own homes_ , Sherlock’s voice reminded him. John’s eye twitched as his mind continued to play his explanation. _If you stay in your underwear, especially that particularly garish pair, there is a chance that the murderer will be angered to the point where he cannot think clearly_.   

 

To John it sounded like utter bollocks, but then again, Sherlock was famous for spouting nonsense and then being right in the end. He had to trust him, even when common sense told him otherwise.

 

And so, he was stuck in this predicament. Strutting around in a pair of ‘garish’ underwear and waiting around for his demise. Lovely.

 

When it was drawing close to seven in the evening, John had decided that enough was enough and that he was going to put some clothes on. The murderer was not going to show up today, Sherlock had been wrong.

 

There was a knock on the door.

 

Unsure of how to respond, John remained where he was, staring at the door as if it were some sort of mythical creature. Why did the world insist on proving Sherlock right? It was grossly unfair. When the knock came a second time, louder and more insistent, John frowned. Should he risk it? Should he answer the door in his underwear and risk embarrassment for both parties?

 

The knocking turned into a pounding and John felt himself grow as impatient as the person on the other side. Could they not wait a few moments? He eventually gave into his vindictive side and answered the door before it was kicked in.

 

“Yes, what is it?” John asked irately, standing proud in just his underwear. When he saw who was at the door, he blinked. “You’re...”

 

His visitor floundered and lowered his hand. “Patrick,” he supplied. “I was at the studio earlier.” His gaze lowered to the underwear and remained fixated on it.

 

John shifted, uncomfortable with the focus directed at his crotch. “Right, is there anything I can help you with?” Wasn’t this boy one of the interns at the studio? He’s been standing beside the snack table during the shoot, but John hadn’t paid much notice at the time. Being screamed at by a Russian photographer tended to take up most of your attention.

 

Now that he thought about it, Patrick hadn’t moved from his spot by the table throughout the whole shoot. A cold chill tingled down John’s spine. No way, could this boy be the murderer? He was barely nineteen, thin and wiry with a face sparsely marked with acne scars. While John knew better than to judge people on appearances, he couldn’t help but think that this boy was hardly able to talk back to his mother, let alone kill a person.

 

Patrick snapped out of his stupor and met John’s eye. “Oh, right,” he mumbled. Reaching into his messenger bag, he pulled out a transparent folder and handed it to John. “The photos from today’s shoot, I was asked to deliver them to you.”

 

John reluctantly took the folder. “Why hand deliver them? Wouldn’t it be easier to mail them to me?” he asked, wincing when he set his eyes on the first photo. He needed to hit the gym after this case. Desperately.

 

Patrick shrugged. “Uri was fond of you.”

 

“Uri?”

 

To John’s surprise, Patrick stood up straight and said in a strong, firm voice: “‘You are a great mountain! Be unmoveable!’” His imitation was perfect, he even managed to get Uri’s silly standing position right.

 

John couldn’t stop the giggle from bubbling up. “Good impression.”

 

Patrick smiled meekly and rubbed at the back of his head. “Thanks.” Checking his watch, he readjusted his bag and slouched forward to hide his embarrassment. “Gotta go, thanks for the hard work today. Isn’t easy being screamed at by that maniac, huh?”

 

“It really isn’t. Take care on your way home.”

 

With a short nod, Patrick turned around and headed down the stairs; he was soon shown out by Mrs. Hudson. When he was out of his field of vision, John let out a quiet sigh and turned to shut the living room door behind him.

 

His gaze remained fixed on the ground. Christ, he was tired...

 

“Charming, wasn’t he?” A voice said from above him.

 

John dropped the folder and almost shot three feet into the air. When did— How was Sherlock able to move so silently? “Holy shi— Don’t do that!” John scolded when the shock had faded. His hand remained over his chest in a vain attempt to calm his breathing and to steady his heartbeat. It didn’t really work.

 

Sherlock ignored him and picked up the folder from the ground. “Oh, ingenious,” he remarked, turning over the folder in his hands once, and then twice.

 

John’s brow furrowed. “You’re doing that thing again.”

 

Sherlock blinked. “What thing?”

 

“When you’ve figured everything out but don’t want to tell me.” In response, Sherlock smirked. Though John wasn’t surprised by the reaction, he still felt a little disappointed. He was going to be kept in the dark till the very last minute. Again.

 

Sherlock waved the folder in his general direction. “Get dressed, I’ll call Lestrade.”

 

“You’re not going to tell me what’s going on, are you?” Sherlock fished out his phone and began to speed dial Lestrade, not acknowledging John’s question in the slightest. “Of course you aren’t, you twat.”

 

~*~

 

In the end, the murderer had been the photographer. Patrick had been his accomplice. During the long, and very rapid explanation, Sherlock had explained that the folder had contained, at what seemed like first glance, photos from the modelling sessions. However, the photographs had been covered in a fine layer of dust. Only, (he had paused at this point, for dramatic purposes, John supposed,) the dust wasn’t dust. It was a poisonous mushroom spore. When inhaled, it would rapidly deteriorate the victims’ lungs. All the victims had brushed the dust away, thus making them easy, unsuspecting targets.

 

When asked as to why it hadn’t been detected before, Sherlock pointed out that the victims had opened their windows in a vain attempt to get more air into their lungs. This allowed the spores to exit the room, but by the time they had realised that they were struggling to breathe, it was too late.

 

Suddenly, John was glad that he didn’t open the folder. However, he was a little sad to know that Patrick was going to be arrested, he seemed like such a charming young man. Perhaps the whole thing had been just an act? He’d never know. All he knew was that another murderer was off the streets and that London would be safe for a little while. That was enough for now.

 

After the Yard had left their flat and the hype and excitement was over, John made two cups of tea; he placed one in front of Sherlock. “So, why was Uri on a massive killing spree?” he asked as he made himself comfortable in his armchair.

 

Sherlock took the cup in hand and leaned back into the leather chair. The post-case high was rapidly fading, if the placid look on his face was any form of indication. “Oh, same old, same old,” he said with a wave of his free hand. “Photographer falls in love with an underwear model, model cheats on them with a swimsuit model. Photographer is bitter and murderous.”

 

John scoffed. “Hardly conventional.”

 

Sherlock smiled and took a sip of his tea. “You kept the underwear.”

 

John’s face flushed in record time. “So what if I did? They’re comfortable. Besides, no one else is going to see them but me. What does it matter?” It wasn’t as if he found the colour rather fetching, or anything like that. Of course not.

 

Sherlock said nothing, but kept his gaze even and continued to drink his tea in silence.

 

John decided not to push the topic further. If Sherlock wasn’t going to mention it, then there was no point in shooting himself in the foot by talking about it too. He supposed that with this logic, he was a true Brit through and through. Conservative and not outlandish in the slightest, as it should be.

 

The thought made him smile.

 

~*~

 

The following week, John found six pairs of briefs on his bed.

 

All of them were red.


End file.
